


the body remains

by insunshine



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2015-2016 NHL Season, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boston Bruins, Ghosts, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-10-30 23:59:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10887624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: After an argument, Patrice starts repeating himself.Or: Patrice Bergeron has become unstuck in time.





	the body remains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taxingme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taxingme/gifts).



> Dear Taxingme, happy RareBears! I hope you enjoy reading this ridiculous thing as much as I enjoyed writing it. The concept isn't lifted exactly from your specified prompts, but I hope that the magical realism aspect scratches the itch.

“What's happening, Hot Stuff?” Brad says, opening the door and kissing him right on the mouth.

It's a movie reference, he's pretty sure; maybe that John Hughes thing they all watched on the plane coming back from the team vacation last season, but Patrice can't remember the exact title. He's almost positive this is the one that starred Molly Ringwald in a big dress. Maybe.

“Hey, yourself,” Patrice says, reaching out and pulling Brad in by the belt loops. His jeans are old and worn, maybe a size too big because of it, but they're Brad’s favorite, so he refuses to get rid of them.

Brad comes easy, shifting up on his toes and wrapping an arm around Patrice’s neck. It's familiar, this push-and-pull between them. Brad tastes like someone he knows, even though Patrice can't remember the exact last time they did this. 

“Flight okay?” Brad asks as he tugs Patrice inside, fingers looped casually around his wrist. It's really starting to snow out, so he's on the chillier side. At least the apartment is toasty, and Brad is, too. Out of the two of them, he’s almost always warm.

“Fine. Felt long,” Patrice says, toeing off his shoes and shrugging off his slicker. More water than he expects slides onto the hardwood, but Brad doesn't seem to notice or care. Maybe this is one of those challenges housekeepers thrive on. “Boring. I slept for most of it.”

Brad laughs. He's always been at the center of Patrice’s focus, the bright light of every room. Unsurprisingly, that doesn't change even when they're alone.

“You're like my dad. I've never seen anybody else with the ability to knock out at the drop of a hat.” 

Patrice shrugs, because it's true.

“That's high praise,” he says. “Maybe one day we can have a speed napping competition.”

“Maybe ‘speed sleeping’,” Brad says, and then pushes Patrice down onto the squashy leather couch, climbing onto his lap. 

Sliding his hands on Brad’s hips is as natural as breathing, and when they kiss again, that feels like air to his tortured lungs, too. 

“I miss you,” Brad whispers against his neck, soft like Patrice can't hear him. “Every fucking day, I miss you.” 

“I,” he tries, but his mouth feels glued shut, lips sewn together with invisible thread. 

Brad kisses him, again and again, and it feels like light, like this is what he's been waiting for. His lungs are burning, but Patrice doesn't care, because this is it. This is what he's wanted.

Kissing Brad isn't like kissing anybody else. He's so solid, it's a tether, even though the rest of Patrice’s limbs feel like they're floating separate from the rest of him.

“I need you to come back,” Brad says, straightening up. His lips are puffy, red like they're bruised, and Patrice thinks, _I did that_ , before the words register.

Brad’s eyes are red, too, like his hay fever is ramping up. Patrice wants to touch him, wants to reach up and press his fingers to Brad’s cheek, but his hands are pinned. He feels too heavy and simultaneously weightless. Cold everywhere but where they're touching.

“I need you to come back, you fucker,” Brad closes his eyes, and Patrice doesn't think he's crying, but the thought that he might be is enough to send his heart racing. His palms are tingling, and he can't move them. “I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, okay? Be mad if you want, I just need you to come _back_.”

“Brad,” he says, clearing his throat. His voice sounds sticky and unused. “I'm right here.”

“It doesn't count if I'm the only one who can see you,” Brad says, shaking his head. 

He doesn't sound mad. More importantly, he doesn't move away, driving forward and kissing Patrice again, his fingers squeezing tight on the back of his neck the same way that his knees are squeezing around Patrice’s thighs.

He wasn't hard before, but Brad’s weight is intoxicating, and besides that, Brad is hard. Brad is rutting against him like he just can't help it; small, jerking movements that make his straining dick grind right up against Patrice.

“Why are you wearing _jeans_ ,” Brad whines, flicking his thumbs against the button fly of Patrice’s pants. “You always make this way harder than you need to.”

He laughs at his own joke, and Patrice is caught staring at him again; impossibly flushed cheeks against his pale face, the way his Adam's Apple moves as he tosses his head back. Patrice wants to lick him there, right there in the juncture between his neck and shoulder, wants to press his face against Brad’s damp skin and breathe in. He's dying to leave his mark.

The buttons on his pants don't open easily, but Brad is persistent. They don't call him a pest for nothing. When Brad's palm circles dry around the head of his dick, Patrice doesn't even care about the extra friction. He's dripping, suddenly desperate for the release he can almost feel, even though Brad has only just started touching him.

“God, you're so wet,” Brad moans, and thank god, he sounds desperate too, needy hums sliding past his mouth like a tuneless symphony Patrice can’t get enough of. 

Brad leans in, close enough that Patrice can smell his sweat, close enough that he can press open-mouthed kisses against his damp skin, little bites that might bruise if Brad presses close enough. His skin is singing, tightening in that way where he knows what's coming, knows how close he is.

“Brad,” he mumbles. “Bradley.” His head hurts, and his cheeks are wet. Patrice doesn't know why, can't puzzle it out, can't question it, and Brad’s fist is pumping faster and faster. 

His vision goes white in the corners. He can't make himself focus, he can't bite down as hard as he wants, he can't —

Patrice comes.

*

He opens his eyes.

He remembers the suspension; Brad slew-footing some Ottawa rookie. Remembers the way Claude didn't yell, even though taking a risk like that was monumentally stupid. 

He remembers holding in his own frustration until they were alone, angrier than he’d been off the ice in a long time, and how the ensuing fight had just made things between them worse.

He remembers winning in Jersey and deserving it, even though that part always felt weird without Brad out there on the ice beside him; remembers the flight home. He remembers the walk to Brad’s apartment in the snow. He remembers how they’d kissed, getting off on the couch like teenagers. 

The days progress.

His brother calls every so often, but Patrice never seems to grab the phone in time, gets a never-ending dial-tone for his trouble when he tries calling back. They text sometimes, at least he always means to, but it's hard to be interesting when there's nothing to report. 

Everything is always a blur during the season, anyway, and his routine rarely changes; get up, drink a protein shake at breakfast, eat an egg white scramble. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. 

He meets with the trainers and his nutritionist, he plays, he goes jogging with his neighbor and their dog. It's all fine, it's normal. It's just that he can't always remember all of it. 

His dreams are vivid. He’s never really been able to remember them before, but now they're like mini realities in full color. Sometimes Brad is there, and they're scoring together on the ice. Sometimes Brad is missing. Sometimes it's him that's been traded instead of Seguin.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh,” Brad says sometimes at night, rolling over and wrapping his arm over Patrice’s waist, tugging him close enough to kiss. “Just a nightmare. You'll be fine. You're fine.”

Sometimes Patrice wakes up and he's alone. The room doesn't always look right, but Brad can be a slob, and he’s always moving stuff around. Sometimes they can't even see the floor, but it's not his place, literally, and they're not dating, so it's not his place figuratively, either. 

Sometimes Brad comes home and just stares at him. It's not always obvious, Patrice doesn't always notice, because there's a movie on, or because he's cooking, or napping first. Sometimes it just _feels like_ Brad’s looking, when he's not even in the room.

*

“What's happening, Hot Stuff?” Brad says, opening the door, leaning in and kissing him right on the mouth. 

Patrice kisses back, leaning down to wrap his arms around Brad’s waist, presses his face against Brad’s neck.

“Hey,” Brad says, hands at his back, his neck. “Hey, hey, baby, you're okay. What's up? You're freezing!” 

“I'm freezing,” Patrice agrees, because he is. It's snowing outside. The roads are slick. He's so cold, he can barely even feel it.

“You want some tea? I was just thinking of throwing the water on.” He grins, fingers curled tight around Patrice’s wrist as he tugs him further in the apartment. “Decaf, I promise.”

“Sounds good,” Patrice agrees, leaning close again to press a kiss to Brad’s ear. It makes him laugh; he says it tickles. He remembers. They’ve been in each other’s orbits for too long for him not to know the mundane details.

“How was the flight?” Brad asks. He still hasn't let go. Patrice hasn't taken his rain slicker off, but when he does, more water than he expects sluices off of it, not that Brad seems to notice or care.

“Long,” Patrice says, snagging an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and biting into it. “Boring. I slept for most of it.”

“Of course you did,” Brad says, laughing at him. “What, no new mystery show for you and Tuukks to sit through?”

Patrice rolls his eyes, hooking his fingers in the belt loops of Brad’s ratty old jeans. He never really wears them out of the apartment, because they're so old, but they're the kind of worn that's comfortable. He's always said he'd never throw them out.

“He watched the _Suits_ finale without me,” he says, hating the whine in his voice, even though it had been annoying.

“Dick move,” Brad agrees, leaning forward to kiss him. “Did you fall asleep? Because that's on you, my dude.”

Patrice rolls his eyes, but agrees. “I waited for him when he fell asleep on the way home from Ottawa last week.” 

Brad laughs at him, petting his cheek mockingly and saying, “You’re right, baby. He should’ve held out, for sure.” 

He shoves Patrice back onto the squashy leather couch in his living room and climbs onto his lap.

“You staying over?” he asks, but he doesn’t bother waiting for Patrice to answer before leaning in and kissing him again. He’s not sure how long they stay like that before Brad pulls away to breathe.

“Can’t,” Patrice gasps, hips rutting up without his express permission. “I have a dentist appointment in the morning on the other side of town, remember? Why don’t you live closer to the T?” 

Brad laughs. He's always been at the center of Patrice’s focus, the bright light of every room. “Sorry, baby. I’ll make sure consult you before I buy my next place, okay?”

He darts in, kissing Patrice’s cheek again, nipping his neck, his earlobe. That tickles, and he laughs, but he’s still cranky when he says, “You should, especially if you keep wanting me to spend the night.”

Honestly, he’s expecting to Brad to laugh, too. Patrice has never been a jokester, but he’s always prided himself on a dry, subtle kind of wit. What happens instead is that Brad scrambles off his lap, his face drawn. 

“Brad,” he says, trying to push himself off the couch to follow. “Marchy,” he pleads, because the couch has a stronger grip than it did the last time he sat on it. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

When Brad turns to face him again, he’s pale and serious. “I need you to come back,” he says. “Please, please come back.” 

Patrice flinches when Brad drops to his knees, linking their fingers together. His grip is strong, bruising. The frustration building in Patrice’s chest is overwhelming and ugly. 

“I’m right _here_ ,” he says. “I’m here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Brad meets his eyes, finally, but he looks so sad that Patrice almost wishes he hadn’t. “I miss you all the time,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

When they come together this time, it’s not languid, not slow or sweet. Brad crawls up his lap from the floor with precise, cat-like grace, his fingers leaving bruises in their wake. They kiss so hard that their teeth knock together, and Patrice tastes blood in his mouth.

It’s a familiar sensation, and he can almost smell the ice in the air, feel it under the crunch of his skates, the sting of it against his bare palms. 

“Pat,” Brad groans, working his hips down. “God, fuck you, fuck you, harder. Come on.” 

They’re not even really doing much. Neither of their pants are down, but it’s enough for him to be hard and desperate for it. 

“Come on,” Brad grunts, his teeth sinking down against Patrice’s bottom lip as they climax. “Come on, come back for me.”

*

Patrice opens his eyes. 

He drinks a protein shake at breakfast, eats an egg white scramble, which tastes just as boring today as it did when he first started making them. 

He plays Angry Birds Star Wars on his phone, because Brad downloaded the app a few years ago, and he likes that it’s harder than the original. He goes for a run, meets with the team trainers and his nutritionist. He plays. He must play, that’s his job, but he can’t remember it, even after he checks the stats.

“You doing okay?” he asks Z after practice. The Captain isn’t the loudest guy, not even when he’s mad, but he's been extra quiet lately, and it’s part of Patrice’s job to make sure he’s functioning properly. 

“Fine,” Z says. He looks calm, but then again, he almost always does. That’s the trick of it, looking for the chinks in the armor. 

“How’s Elliz doing?” Patrice asks. “She getting excited to be a big sister?” 

“Yes, I think so,” he says. “She sings to them. It’s cute, especially because she’s a terrible singer.” 

Patrice laughs, even though Z doesn’t.

“That is cute,” he agrees, and Z nods at him, turning back to his stall to finish getting dressed.

There’s something heavy in the air, something heavy pressing against his chest, even though he can’t quite grasp at it. 

“Patrice,” Z says, voice measured, and the tightness in Patrice’s chest intensifies. “You need to come back. Now. It’s time.” 

He closes his eyes, but when he opens them again, it’s still the same old locker room at Ristuccia. Z is next to him, waiting quietly, but not hovering. His eyes are very kind. 

“I’m _here_.” He speaks as calmly as he can, but it’s probably not that calm at all, considering he has to grit the words through his teeth. “I don’t understand where else I’m supposed to be. Am I late for something? What did I miss?”

When it comes, the panic is almost paralyzing. He curls his fingernails tightly against his palms, hoping the sting will stave off the worst of it, but it doesn't help. Distantly, he can feel Z’s hand on his shoulder, steadying him so he doesn’t collapse right there in the middle of the locker room. He’s having a hard time breathing. 

“Patrice. Bergy. It’s okay, baby. Breathe. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Brad’s hands are one of the best things about him. Patrice would know them anywhere, and he knows them now, gripping onto his hips tightly and breathing hard against his cheek. “You’re fine. Just breathe. You’re fine.”

*

Patrice opens his eyes. 

He’s home, but he doesn’t remember getting there. He’s alone in bed, but there’s too much light and noise in the kitchen for him to be alone in the house. His bed is comfortable, because he spends a lot of time in it, but he pushes himself up anyway, and it only takes a few tries for him to stay on his feet.

He’s not exactly surprised to see Brad making a mess in his kitchen, but the relief swooping through his chest almost makes him lose his balance again.

“You’re here,” he says, even though he should have started with something less pathetic and more _good morning_. 

Brad squints at him over the steam coming off a pot of boiling water.

“Fuck you, of course I’m here. Where else would I be?” Patrice shrugs, but that’s obviously not a good enough answer. “I miss you so much I started grinding my teeth again at night. Haven’t done that since grade 4. I’m sending you the bill for my orthodontia, by the way. You better believe it.”

“I do,” Patrice agrees, because it’s the easiest possible option. “I don’t know how to stop what it is that I’m doing to you, but I am sorry. I’m so sorry, Marchy.”

They move at the same time, meeting halfway around the kitchen island. Marchy doesn’t waste any time before winding their bodies tightly together. 

“I know you have unfinished business,” Brad mumbles nonsensically against his chest. He’s crying, but silently. He can't hear it, but Patrice can feel the dampness collecting through his shirt. “You have to come back so we can win another fucking cup. We’ve never done a single St. Patty’s pub crawl, and we live in Boston, Patrice. You have to come back for that. We haven’t — you haven’t even finished _Suits_! You can’t fucking give up before that.”

“I’m not giving up,” Patrice says, whispering the words against the bent crown of Brad’s head, rubbing his back. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Damn straight,” Brad says, louder this time, and then he’s twisting, turning his head up so they can kiss. Patrice isn’t prepared for it. Brad kisses like he’ll run out of air if he stops. Like there's nothing left but the feel of the two of them twined so tightly there's no telling where they start or end.

“Get your fucking clothes off, slacker,” Brad mumbles, the words tight between them.

It takes some effort, shucking his shirt and sleep pants without making the space, but they manage it. The sky is gray and overcast out the window, and the light casts odd shadows against the smooth, pale expanse of Brad’s skin. 

“You're beautiful,” Patrice whispers. His hands cooperate for once, and he moves them to Brad’s cheeks, holding him still so they can kiss again.

“Fuck,” Brad groans. “Fuck.” 

Tears are still sliding down his cheeks, but he doesn't stop, even though Patrice tries to pull back and look at him.

“Marchy,” he says, but Brad shakes his head, sliding impossibly closer and looping his arms around Patrice’s waist. “We should, um. The stovetop. Don't want the water to overflow.”

“That's what you're worried about right now?” Brad asks, but there's a laugh in his voice.

“I just don't want anyone to get hurt,” Patrice agrees, even though that's not what he'd meant to say at all.

Brad flinches, full-body and painful. “Patrice,” he says, making eye contact over the kitchen island. “I need you to come back now, okay? It's time.”

"I will," Patrice promises, even though it doesn't make much sense. "I want to."

Brad smiles at him, looking tired, looking _sad_ , but he doesn't argue, turning off the heat on the burner and sliding close again.

"You're still hard," he says, his grin predatory as he slides to his knees. "Lucky me."

"Marchy," Patrice gasps. He means to say something else, means to stop this so they can talk, so Brad can explain, but his protests slip away as Brad starts to jerk him, and then pushes somehow closer, lips replacing his fingers as he takes Patrice into his mouth.

It's over fast, of course it is. Brad knows his every tell. Patrice comes with his eyes closed, fists clenched against empty air.

*

“What's happening, Hot Stuff?” Brad says, leaning against the open doorway in his apartment. He looks tired, but he's smiling anyway.

“Hey,” Patrice responds, leaning in and kissing him lightly on the cheek. “You okay? Still mad at me?”

Brad rolls his eyes, but moves aside so Patrice can follow him into the apartment. 

“I'm not mad at you,” he says, even though he sounds sort of mad. The last time they'd spoken in person had involved yelling on both sides. “You were right to call me out. It was stupid.”

“It _was_ stupid, and we needed you out there,” Patrice agrees, can’t help sliding right back into his initial argument. He stops before he pushes himself into a fully angry swell. That's not why he'd come over here. “We always need you out there, Marchy. You can't be taking chances like that.”

Brad flinches, but he nods, dragging his hands up over his face and through his hair. “I know that, okay? I know. I’ll try and be more careful.” 

Trying and doing are different things, but Patrice drops it, reaching out and grabbing him by the belt loops of his ratty, ancient jeans.

“Why don't you throw these out?” he asks. “I can actually see your ass.”

It makes Brad laugh, which is what he'd wanted, and it also makes Brad wriggle back into him, pressing the length of their legs and hips together.

“Why do you think I keep them around, genius? Who else is gonna stop by my house in the middle of the night, huh?”

“Is it really that late?” Patrice asks, even though he vaguely knows. They'd landed around 11, and he'd dropped his things at home and then headed straight over. That was an hour ago, easy. There had been traffic.

“Yeah,” Brad says, but he's still smiling. “But who cares? I'm still suspended, so it's not like I have anywhere to be.”

“You know I could make you come to practice tomorrow, right?” Patrice asks, but he's smiling, too. They probably look like idiots, standing around in Brad’s living room grinning at each other.

“Optional skate,” Brad says. “Besides, you have a dentist appointment with that new guy in Chinatown, remember? How are you going to enforce my attendance if you're too busy dropping your jaw open for somebody else?”

It takes him a second to understand the joke. Brad’s trying and failing to keep a straight face, and he starts laughing for real once Patrice tackles him onto the couch. It's old, too, the beat up leather familiar under his palms. Patrice knows every inch of it from crashing on it in the early days and moving it from apartment to apartment. It doesn't fit with the rest of the decor, but it doesn't have to. It's a permanent fixture.

“Haha,” he says, face pressed against Brad’s neck. “Why don't you live closer to a T stop? This is your fault for not considering how much time I could spend over here.” 

Brad tightens his arms, and with the way they're sitting, Patrice can feel him swallow, can feel how the slow, thudding beat of his heart starts to heighten.

“You know,” Brad says, voice sounding tighter than usual. “You could just… come with me, next time. The lease on this place is up in June, I was probably going to move anyway. We could buy a two family, or something. That wouldn't be, I mean. It would be less suspicious if we didn't rent out the bottom, just say you lived there instead, but at least we'd be, you know. Centrally located.”

They've vaguely talked about it before. Dating during the season is almost impossible. Dating a teammate might seem helpful on the outside, but logistically, with the types of emotional and exhausting highs and lows they deal with, with the premium put on leadership and winning, it's just not. It's not smart, and that's even before the frankly ridiculous and invasive concept of outing themselves to their teammates, management, and the press.

“I,” Patrice tries, but Brad shakes his head, maneuvering out from under him and getting to his feet.

“No, I get it. Don't worry about it. We can talk about it later. Or maybe in June, if things are different. Or if not, I’ll just renegotiate here. It's a good space. Holds all my stuff. I hate moving.”

He's babbling, but last part is true, anyway. Patrice has helped him through the last three apartment changes, and each time he does, it's exhausting.

“You want some tea?” Brad continues, already getting up. “I was about to throw some water on before you showed up. You can tell me about the flight, since I already watched the game.”

“You did?” Patrice says, getting to his feet as well. He's never surprised at Brad's commitment to the team, but it's still such a startling contrast between this responsible adult and the reckless kid he'd been.

Brad ignores the question, posing one himself instead. “The flight?” 

“It was just Jersey,” Patrice says, following Brad into the kitchen and sliding onto one of the bar stools at the island. “Felt long. It was boring.”

“What, no new mystery for you and Tuukks to obsess over?”

Patrice rolls his eyes, before grunting, “He’s a dick. He watched the _Suits_ finale without me.” 

“Dick move,” Brad agrees, leaning forward to kiss him. “Did you fall asleep? Because that's on you, my dude.”

“It's about accountability,” Patrice whines, hating it, but not bothering to censor himself. It's just Brad. If he can't let his pettiness shine through here, he couldn't do it anywhere. “He passed out cold on the flight home from Ottawa last week. I waited four hours to watch the _Modern Family_ finale and I didn't even complain!”

“I know,” Brad says, leaning close and petting his cheek. He's grinning. “You're like my dad. I've never seen anybody else with the ability to knock out at the drop of a hat.”

“That's high praise,” Patrice says. “Maybe one day we can have a speed napping competition.”

“Maybe ‘speed sleeping’,” Brad says, pulling back once the kettle goes off. He reaches up above the stovetop to the hutch where he keeps his glassware, and Patrice can't help watching the way his shirt lifts and how great his ass looks in those terrible jeans.

“I think,” he tries, but Brad cuts him off, going full steam ahead as he pours tea into two mugs.

“I know it's stupid. I know that. It goes against your rules. And I know that you've got those in place for a reason. We'd have to tell people. That would suck. But I think it might be worth it. Don't you think it would be worth giving this shit a shot?” 

“It's not that I don't care about you,” Patrice blurts, mind racing. “Of course I do.” Brad nods. He does know that. He has to know that. 

“I know,” he says, and Patrice breathes in relief before Brad continues. “But I love you, so. It's different, see?” He's at a loss for words, and it must show, because Brad takes pity on him. “Never mind,” he says, pouring out the tea with one hand and holding out his hand with the other. “Let's just go to bed.” 

Something about him must catch Brad’s attention, because he narrows his eyes, and Patrice can feel the faint stirrings of panic churning in his gut again. 

“You haven't even taken your coat off, which makes sense, because you weren't planning to stay.”

“Marchy,” Patrice tries, and when Brad swings his eyes to him, he looks even more tired than before.

“No, it's fine. It's cool. It's late, and I'm beat, and I have to skate in the morning, so maybe I should go to bed before we say anything else that we regret, okay?”

“Okay,” Patrice agrees, setting down the mug of tea he hasn't even taken a sip of. “Do you want to do breakfast in the morning? I'm so fucking tired of omelettes.”

Brad shrugs, but he looks genuine when he smiles and says, “Sure. Text me when you're done working out.”

They walk to the door together, and Patrice can feel Brad’s hand hovering at his waist, like he wants to touch, but won't let himself. Patrice knows the feeling. It's taking all the willpower he has not to lean back into all of that strength and heat.

“I'm sorry I'm letting you down,” Patrice says. He feels heavy in an otherworldly way. He has a migraine screaming behind his eyes.

“You're not,” Brad says, darting in and kissing him quickly, one tight peck on the lips before he's gone again. “Just come back to me, okay? That's all I want.”

*

Patrice wakes up. 

The alarm going off doesn't sound like the one he uses, but Brad downloads ridiculous and bizarre shit on his phone all the time. The noise is loud, persistent buzzing he can’t ignore, regardless of how much he tries to ignore it. When he reaches to turn it down, his whole body starts to ache.

It’s not the kind of ache his body can get used to, either, the pain spreading from the very tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes. He feels like he's been hit by a whole fleet of Mack trucks, and then jostled by a crowded train.

“Holy shit,” someone says, but they sound far away, and Patrice tries opening his eyes, but it's hard because they hurt as much as the rest of him. 

“Is he moving?” The voice asks again, or maybe it's somebody different this time. He's hearing them from down the hallway, maybe, or through headphones, even though his ears don't feel like they have anything inside them but cotton wool.

“Sir, I need you to take a step back,” says a lower voice.

Patrice tries to turn and groans instead, something sharp and ugly pulling tightly in his abdomen. 

“He is awake,” the first voice says, and Patrice feels hands against his face, calloused fingers tracing his jaw, over the hollows under his eyes. “You can see him moving, right? You saw that.”

“Sir,” says the second voice, and Patrice coughs, realizing suddenly that his throat feels parched and razor blade dry. He can't even swallow.

“He's _awake_ ,” the first voice says, and it sounds like he wants to stamp his foot, which is almost enough to make Patrice smile. That hurts too much to do, but at least he can slowly open his eyes.

It's a hospital room, a private one, if the lack of other beds and the closed doors mean anything. The lights are dimmed, and there's an exhausted looking nurse with short dark hair and a frustrated scowl beside his bed. Brad is standing in front of him, though, so at least the disgruntlement makes sense. 

“Sir, if you don't restrain yourself, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the nurse says. 

Patrice wants to disagree, wants to beg Brad to stay, but the prospect of actually opening his mouth and speaking seems both terrifying and disastrous.

“Fuck you, I'm not leaving until you —” Brad takes a step back, and their eyes meet, accidentally at first, and then because Patrice can't turn his head away. “Holy shit, hi.”

Brad looks startled, and then loses his balance, hands scrabbling against the rail of the hospital bed as he winds up folded in half and gasping.

“Sir!” says the nurse, suddenly sounding more panicked than annoyed. 

“Fine, I'm fine,” Brad says, but Patrice can't stop looking at him, and he certainly doesn't look it. His eyes are raw-rimmed and bagged, and he's too wan and pale to be healthy.

“Get him a chair,” Patrice slurs. His voice is hoarse and rusty, and it hurts to speak, but he did it. At least he could do that.

“Chair would be good,” Brad agrees. He doesn't thank the nurse, who exits the room muttering. “You're _awake_.”

Patrice doesn't try to nod, that seems like it would be courting disaster, but he does reach out his hand, and Brad grips back, gentler than he's ever been.

“How much do you remember?” Brad asks. He sounds much calmer now that the nurse isn't in the room. 

“Not much,” Patrice says, he wants to shrug. The longer they sit, the more his brain tries to arrange and alphabetize his memories, even though they're hazy at best. “We won in Jersey.”

“Yeah, you fucking did,” Brad agrees, with a genuine smile. “You guys lit it up.” 

“You watched it,” Patrice says, trying the smiling thing again, not that it had worked particularly well the last time. “We talked about that.” 

He remembers kissing on the couch. Brad’s falling apart jeans. The argument. He tries to sit up straighter, awareness zinging through his blood like lightning, even though all his beeping, wired machines don’t let him get very far. 

“Brad,” he says.

“Hey, let’s not do that right now, okay? The important part is that you’re awake.” Brad moves like he’s going to get up, but Patrice isn’t planning on letting go of his wrist anytime soon, so they may be at a stalemate. “I have to call Z. I have to call _Cam_. Also your parents. Fuck. Did you know your mom wants to go antiquing this weekend? She thinks I’m a charming young man.”

“You are, but she knew that already,” Patrice says. Brad and his parents have always gotten along.

He shifts, trying to get more comfortable, but it doesn't help; his body feels like a single, continuous bruise.

Brad frowns, reaching over the railing and helping him settle, his hands gentle on Patrice's shoulders. He can feel himself blushing and he hates it. Apparently embarrassment doesn’t give breaks for pain management. Brad meets his eyes again, and when he looks away, he looks like he’s in pain, too.

“You can’t keep looking at me like that, man," he says. "I had this whole speech planned. I had an epiphany last night before I finally fell asleep, right? You don’t need to be in love with me for you to love me. Love is love, and if our kinda of loves aren't the same, well. Fuck it. Not worth losing you over.”

“It’s not that I don’t,” Patrice tries, but Brad’s phone is buzzing in his pocket, he has to have his wrist back to answer it. 

“It’s your mom,” he says, holding up the view-screen. “Is she psychic or something?” 

“That would explain a lot,” Patrice agrees, and Brad rewards the joke with a laugh that shows off the curve of his neck. 

*

In total, Patrice is in the hospital for six days, for two of which he was comatose, due to a collision with a spiraling car on Comm Ave. It’s a miracle he wasn’t crushed to death, everyone says. 

Instead of death, he’s diagnosed with a concussion, fractured collarbone, tibia and a persistent case of tinnitus. It could be so much worse, compared to being potentially deceased, but it still sucks, and he has to keep reminding himself not to complain where his mother can hear.

“It’s likely the trauma,” she says, wheeling him out of the hospital on discharge day. “The tinnitus, I mean. Your body just doesn’t know what to do with all that pain.”

“So it’s manifesting itself in additional annoyances?” his dad scoffs. “That seems tricky to me. I don’t trust it.”

“Me either,” Guillaume agrees, and Patrice laughs, even though it hurts, tugging his ballcap lower to shield his eyes from the lights. He’s hopped up on four different kinds of painkillers, and he’s still sore, but it’s in a distant way. 

There’s press everywhere when they exit the hospital, but Sarah from Communications is a genius. They’re all standing on the other end of the parking lot, haunting a private exit near MGH’s emergency room. She’s smiling, and directing their attention inside, and his parents manage to get him out the door, out of the chair, and inside a waiting black car without attracting anyone’s obvious notice.

Maybe there’ll be embarrassing photos later of Guillaume hoisting him into the backseat of an Escalade like a toddler, but Patrice will grin and bear it if that means he doesn’t have to answer any questions from strangers about how he's feeling for a while. 

At home, they install him on the couch, with pillows for his leg, and an Icy Hot patch for his collarbone. The concussion is mild, not even the worst he’s ever had, but it means no strenuous TV or movies for a while. Considering all he wants to do is sleep, that sounds pretty great. 

“Does Brad know we’re here?” he asks as he comes awake. 

His mom isn’t hovering, exactly, but it’s normal concussion protocol to wake him up every hour and a half, and she presses a kiss to his forehead before she answers. “He stopped by with groceries earlier, but you had only just fallen asleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.” 

Patrice frowns, but he curbs it when her features start to mirror his own. 

“He didn’t want to stick around?” he asks. He has to be getting on her nerves, but if there were ever a time for whining, it would be now.

“He has a game tonight, love,” she says, resting her palm against his cheek. He hasn’t relied on her so heavily since he was a kid, but considering the circumstances, he doesn’t stop himself from leaning into her comfort. 

“I knew that,” he mutters, even though he can’t remember if that’s actually true or not. “Did you tell him to come back?”

“I think he knows,” she says, “but I will remind him.”

*

It’s when a week goes by and they haven’t actually seen each other that Patrice starts getting suspicious. It’s not in his nature, but if he has to watch his mother blush and lie to him again, he’s going to punch something. It might take him a while to get to his feet, but he’s mad enough to risk it. 

“Mom,” he says, hobbling after her into the kitchen the morning she’s set to fly home. “We’ve had rookies hanging out over here more often than I’ve seen Brad. If he’s avoiding me, just tell me, so I can… so I can do something. This is ridiculous.”

“Patrice,” she says, matching his tone. “He comes by! He’s visited. That boy has brought us more groceries than your refrigerator can possibly hold, which is a waste, considering you barely eat. Do you want me to wake you every single time he walks in the door?”

He can tell that she’s covering for Brad, and he can even guess why, but that doesn’t make any of this less frustrating. 

“Mom, I just want to talk to him,” he pleads. “I need to talk to him.” 

She pats his arm and says, “And you will. You scared all of us, my love, but you survived. Maybe this is how Brad survives.”

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, even though he doesn’t mean it.

She hugs him goodbye tightly, pressing quick kisses to his cheeks before leaving, and he waits until the door is closed behind her before he drags his iPhone out of the drawer and powers it on. He’s checked it sporadically over the last seven days, but the artificial light still makes his head hurt. 

It doesn’t matter. This is important. He scrolls to Brad’s name, thumb hovering over it before the spike of adrenaline in his gut pushes him into action. 

“Mrs. B? I thought you were heading out today,” Brad says, answering on the first ring. He sounds immediately worried, which is terrible, but Patrice has been cooped up in his house for days, so maybe he’s a little relieved, too. 

“It’s me,” he says, clearing his throat in the silence that follows. 

“I thought you were on phone restriction,” Brad says, which is so. It’s just — he’s so deeply, fundamentally frustrating that Patrice wants to scream. 

“I remember what you said,” he says, which wasn’t the way he was planning on starting this. He didn’t want to do it over the phone, but honestly, maybe it’s better. There’s less to be afraid of if he can’t see every mistake he makes etched on Brad’s face. “You can’t just tell somebody you love them and act like it didn’t happen.”

“You left!” Brad screeches. He’s never had a problem with modulating his tone off the ice.

“You told me to!” Patrice hisses back. “You asked me to buy a house with you, and then you walked it back, and then you told me you loved me, and didn’t even give me time to think of an appropriate answer. You told me to leave!”

“You asked me to grab breakfast, and then you were hit by a goddamn car, Pat,” Brad volleys back, the pain still fresh and obvious in his voice. “‘scuse me if I thought that was the sign to end all signs. Give it up. Just be fucking grateful you’re alive. Jesus Christ, you get on my nerves.” 

“Can you please, just,” Patrice mumbles, trying to rub away a fresh headache and letting out a frustrated breath. “Can you please just come here?”

“I’m already on my fucking way,” Brad says in return.

*

“You look like hot garbage,” Brad says, dropping his spare set of keys onto the side table and coming to sit down on the couch. “Don’t be disappointed when you don’t get any photo shoot offers this season, okay? The public needs to get used to what a Quasimodo you’ve become.” 

“Hello to you too,” he says, instead of responding to the insults. Brad doesn’t look much better, still even paler than he normally is at this time of year. The bruises under his eyes give away the secret that he obviously hasn’t been sleeping. 

“You wanted me here, and I’m here, but just so you know, this isn’t how normal breakups work. I’m supposed to have a buffering period to grieve, and then, and only then, do I have to see you again. I’m doing you a favor, you got it? Look at how generous I’m being.” 

“Is that what we are?” Patrice asks. “Broken up? We can’t even discuss it?”

Brad snorts, using the heels of his palms to rub at his eyes. “You can’t break up something that wasn’t official in the first place, man.”

Patrice closes his eyes, taking one deep breath after another, even though it’s not doing much to calm the frantic beating of his heart. 

“Can we do that?” he asks, voice so quiet he can barely hear himself. 

“You want to make it clean?” Brad says, eyeing him warily. “I guess I could ask Jere for a trade, but considering we have no idea if you’ll even see ice time again —”

“I’ll see it again,” Patrice says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Don’t say that, what are you even doing, you fucking jinx? No. I don’t want you to request a trade. I don’t want you to say you don’t think I’ll ever play again. I want you to be with me. Now. Next month. When your lease is up, I want you to buy a house with me, and I want you to shop with my mom, and do a fantasy football draft with my brother, and I want.” He coughs, voice unused to being used this much. “I know I missed my shot, but if you give me another one, I won’t let you down again, Marchy. I promise you.” 

Brad goes entirely still, frozen like an animal caught in the sights of its predator. He doesn’t breathe, he doesn’t move, and when Patrice touches his arm briefly, he flinches. 

With his eyes closed, he whispers, “I don’t even care if this is because you just had a near death experience. If you tell me to stay, I will move in here faster than you can blink.”

“Be with me,” Patrice says, equally as quiet. “Be with me for real.”

“You can’t take this back,” Brad says, voice hoarse. He sounds out of breath, like he’s been double-shifting for an entire game. “If you’re fucking with me, I’ll kill you, I don't even care, Bergy. Swear to god.”

Patrice laughs, leaning as close as he can without straining against his bruises. He holds Brad’s hands tightly and says, “I'm not. I wouldn't. I do love you, Marchy. You can count on that.”

Brad kisses him, and Patrice ignores the way that his lips taste like salt. He settles close, making himself comfortable with their shoulders touching.

“You ever scare me like that again, and I’ll leave you so fast your head spins. I'm not built to be a widow.” He pats Patrice’s arm, like that's going to soften the blow, but when he drops his hand to tangle their fingers together, his grip is strong.

“I won't,” Patrice promises. “You’re stuck with me now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the Groundhog Day + Just Like Heaven mashup everybody was clamoring for. 
> 
> This story, full stop, would not have been considered, begun or completed without the constant support of my pal @asmallbluedot. I am forever grateful that she puts up with me regularly screaming at her about nonsense for hours. Further thanks to @gigantic for the edit, because everything I write is blessed for her insight. Also to the challenge mods, who did such a great job of pulling everything together.
> 
> The title is a line from Cold Specks' beautiful "Blank Maps", and I highly recommend listening to it as you read.


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